Takedown

by Brad Thor

  Herrington studied the scene for several moments and then said, “Maybe this has to do with why they were trying to draw off the cream.”

  Harvath wasn’t following him.

  “The hostage crisis in the Bronx, the fire at the Emergency Command Center in Brooklyn, the sniper targeting aircraft at LaGuardia? All of it served to tie up high-end tactical assets in those boroughs and potentially draw more away from Manhattan. Then the bridges and tunnels go, and every available local, state, or federal law enforcement officer rushes to the scene of the nearest attack, rolls up his or her sleeves, and starts helping pull people out. They’re heroes—don’t get me wrong—but one of the things you rarely hear talked about when people discuss what went wrong on September eleventh is that too many people wanted to be a hero that day.

  “It wasn’t like New Orleans after the hurricane hit and the levees broke and cops abandoned their posts. In New York, all of the police, fire, paramedics, and everyone at 26 Federal Plaza rushed to the World Trade Center on 9/11 to help. They saw it as their duty, and right or wrong, they ignored their commanders and ran down there as fast as they could. What if somebody was counting on that happening again?”

  Harvath looked at his friend. “Are you telling me you think the attacks on the bridges and tunnels were diversions?”

  Bob shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. You tell me. Why shut down the air traffic control system? Why have snipers target boats and helicopters around Manhattan?”

  That had been troubling Harvath as well, and there was only one answer he could come up with: “To prevent it from being reinforced.”

  “And why wouldn’t you want the island reinforced?”

  “Because having to engage reinforcements would either hinder your escape or—”

  “Prevent you from accomplishing your primary objective.”

  Harvath shook his head. “That’s where this thing loses me. We’ve been saying for years that another attack is not a question of if, but when, and now it’s happened. The death toll from the bridge and tunnel attacks is easily going to exceed 9/11, so how can that not have been their primary objective?”

  “That’s the problem with the way we look at these ass-hats,” replied Herrington. “Too often we give them credit for being a lot smarter than they actually are. It makes us feel better that way when they beat us. But I’ll tell you something, taking out those bridges and tunnels isn’t really an issue of smarts, it’s an issue of manpower. You throw enough manpower at any problem and you can solve it, especially when your manpower is willing to die to achieve your goal for you.”

  “But we’re talking about a lot of manpower here,” replied Harvath. “The shitbag we interrogated at the First Precinct proves they had some sort of redundancies in place.”

  “Two backups, three backups, so what? Look at the London bombings. Look at Madrid. They just took Manhattan and threw more manpower at it, that’s all. Even if we never know exactly how they did it, they did it, and that’s all that matters at this point.”

  “Okay,” said Harvath, playing devil’s advocate for a moment. “Suppose everything you’re saying is correct and the bridges and tunnels, the snipers, RPGs, and ATC site bombings are all intended to isolate Manhattan and prevent reinforcements from interfering with the terrorists’ primary objective. From what we can tell, they hit this location and then moved to Midtown to hit the other in the diamond district. What are they after?”

  “That’s the hundred-thousand-dollar question,” replied Herrington. “If we can figure that out, we might have a shot at stopping them. If you want my opinion, I vote we go back and convince the NYPD to turn over your pal with the overactive salivary glands so we can take him somewhere and interrogate him properly this time.”

  Herrington had a point. The surviving terrorist was the only concrete lead they had.

  As a plan began to form in Harvath’s mind he suddenly wondered if maybe dead men could tell tales.

  Forty-One

  Three,” replied Kevin McCauliff as Harvath readied his pen to take down the information. “Each from a different phone in the group, but all to the same number.”

  Harvath had chastised himself for not thinking of this earlier. If they knew which phones the suicide bombers had been using, it made sense to check on their call records. It was McCauliff’s mention of a contact at Nextel that had planted the seed in the back of Harvath’s mind.

  “And what were you able to find out about the number?” asked Harvath.

  McCauliff drew in a deep breath and said, “You’re not going to like this.”

  “Unless you’re going to tell me that these guys were dialing the front desk at the Defense Intelligence Agency, I think I can handle it.”

  “The calls went to an alphanumeric pager purchased two weeks ago which was paid for in cash along with upfront local service.”

  “One-way or two-way pager?”

  “One-way,” answered McCauliff. “VHF frequency with really no way to trace it.”

  “You’re right,” replied Harvath. “I don’t like it. The guy could be anywhere.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. Thanks for checking into it for me.”

  “That’s what friends are for, right? Listen, if you need anything else call me back, but if I’m away from my desk, do me a favor and don’t leave a message, call me on my cell or send me a benign text. Okay? I’m still pretty keen on keeping my job here, and I never know when Big Brother is looking at my communications.”

  With those words, a series of tumblers clicked in Harvath’s head. Excited by the idea that had just flashed across his mind, he gripped his cell phone tighter and said, “If I asked you to, could you send a text message to that alphanumeric pager and make it look like it came from the cell phone I liberated from the NYPD?”

  “Sure,” replied McCauliff, “but why?”

  “Because I think maybe we can make Mohammed come to the mountain.”

  Forty-Two

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Jack Rutledge looked up as Carolyn Leonard entered his office. “What’s going on?”

  “We just got an update from Amanda’s detail agents in New York,” said the Secret Service agent.

  “Is she all right?”

  “She’s at Beth Israel Hospital now. We’ve got agents en route from the Manhattan field office as we speak.”

  “That’s not what I asked, Carolyn. I asked if Amanda’s all right.”

  “We don’t know, sir. Apparently she stopped breathing on the way there and Agent Delacorte had to give her mouth-to-mouth.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “They’re prepping her for surgery, and we hope to have more information soon.”

  “Inform the hospital that I’ll want to talk with the doctors myself as soon as they know something. In fact, Dr. Vennett is somewhere in the building. I want her to be in on the call as well.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll have someone find the Surgeon General right away.”

  “Thank you, Carolyn.”

  Once she had left the room, the chief of staff said, “Amanda’s a strong woman. She’ll pull through. Don’t worry.”

  Rutledge laughed. Don’t worry? How could he not worry? This was his twenty-one-year-old daughter they were talking about, for God’s sake.

  Bringing the conversation back to what they’d been discussing when Carolyn Leonard had come in with her update, Charles Anderson asked, “What about Secretary Driehaus?”

  “Let him wait. Maybe he’ll get bored and go back to his office.”

  “He’s the Secretary of Homeland Security, Mr. President. You can’t not see him.”

  “He shouldn’t be here, Chuck, and you know it. Not now. He should be back at DHS running his part of the operation.”

  “I agree with you one hundred percent, but the fact is he’s here, and more importantly, the press knows he’s here. If you snub him, it’s going to make people question how well this administration is han
dling this crisis.”

  “Damn it, I don’t have time for this. His visit has nothing to do with this crisis.”

  The chief of staff softened his tone and said, “We know that, but as far as he’s concerned it has everything to do with it. Give him three minutes and then I’ll have Rachel buzz with a call from one of our allies. This way he gets to say his piece and won’t be able to claim that you wouldn’t see him.”

  “Fine,” said Rutledge. “I’ll do it. But I want you to know that I think this is a mistake.”

  “I know you do.”

  “Let’s get it over with. Show him in.”

  Anderson buzzed the president’s secretary in the outer office and told her they were ready. Ten seconds later, the door to the Oval Office opened and Alan Driehaus walked in.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. President,” said Driehaus as he shook the president’s hand.

  “Of course, Alan. Please take a seat,” replied Rutledge as he sat back down. “I’ve only got a couple of minutes, so why don’t you tell me what it is you couldn’t address over the phone?”

  “I thought I explained myself to Chuck—”

  “And I have to be honest with you, Alan. I told Chuck I didn’t think now was the time to be discussing this. Not with everything else happening.”

  “I can understand that, Mr. President, but I have several pieces of intelligence which I find quite disturbing.”

  “Such as?”

  “First of all, I have it on good authority that less than twenty-four hours ago, an agent or agents of the United States government crossed illegally into the sovereign nation of Canada, and then assaulted and kidnapped a guest of that country who had been granted political asylum.”

  Rutledge shot his chief of staff a look conveying how angry he was to be having this meeting and then turned back to Driehaus and asked, “Why don’t you tell me who this good authority is that you’re basing this rather serious accusation on?”

  “I’d rather not, Mr. President. I’d rather you tell me if it is true or not.”

  Rutledge’s rope was very short today, and he was quickly coming to the end of it. Raising his voice, he replied, “How dare you come into this office and make demands of me? In case you’ve forgotten, Alan, I’m the president of the United States, and you work for me.”

  The president’s reaction was answer enough. There was only one more question Driehaus had. “I understand we intercepted terrorist chatter indicating they not only knew we had violated another country’s sovereignty, abducted a foreign national, and brought him to America against his will, but in particular the chatter stated that we had brought the person in question to New York City, of all places. Is this true?”

  Rutledge leaned back in his chair and said, “You and I have nothing further to discuss. This meeting is over.”

  “You’re right, Mr. President,” said Driehaus as he rose from his chair and removed an envelope from his breast pocket. Placing it on the edge of the president’s desk he said, “I can no longer support the policies of this administration. I will remain at my post for as long as you and my country need me to help get through this crisis, but then I’m gone. I’ve left my resignation undated. Fill it in whenever you see fit.”

  As Driehaus headed for the door, the president said, “That isn’t necessary, Alan.”

  The secretary turned, a pulse of hope coursing through his body. Maybe the president could be made to see things the right way.

  But the man’s hopes were dashed as the president picked up a pen and said, “I’ll fill today’s date in right now.”

  Forty-Three

  NEW YORK CITY

  In an ambush, the enemy sets the time, but the attacker gets to set the place, and that was exactly what Harvath and the rest of the team had done. The trick was to select a good location that was also within a reasonable distance of the Geneva Diamond and Jewelry Exchange. Kevin McCauliff felt relatively confident that he was going to be able to spoof what they all hoped was the lead terrorist’s pager.

  The idea was to make it look like it was receiving positioning updates from the cell phone of the captured Middle Eastern man whose backpack had failed to explode and who was currently cooling his heels in an NYPD jail cell.

  While it might be very odd for the lead terrorist’s pager to be getting updates, it might just be odd enough to pique his interest and cause him to look into why the failed bomber was apparently trying to reconnect.

  “And if the lead man tries to call or message our guy’s cell phone?” asked Herrington.

  “It doesn’t matter. No cell phones except for first responders and law enforcement are working now anyway. Kevin’s pal at Nextel says he’ll make sure all anyone gets when they dial the number is a fast busy signal and any text messages will fail to go through. All we have to do is keep the updates coming sporadically enough to keep their interest,” said Harvath.

  It sounded like a reasonable enough plan, though it potentially had two fatal flaws. The team was divided over whether or not the terrorists would have had a contingency plan—a what to do if you can’t hit your target or your bomb fails to go off. If they did and one of the bombers diverged from that contingency plan—like returning to a predetermined location and contacting an outside player—it might set off alarm bells and instead of drawing the remaining terrorists in, actually push them away. The second potential pitfall was whether or not the suicide bombers would have been privy to the rest of the operation. It was another sticking point that could just as easily work against them as it could in their favor.

  There was a third problem that they all agreed on—they had no idea who or what they were going to be looking for. They could set up the world’s best ambush, but if they couldn’t identify their quarry, how would they know when it was time to spring the trap? In the end, they decided they would just have to jump off that bridge when they came to it.

  The south end of Central Park fit the ambush bill better than anything else they could think of. It provided ample cover and concealment and multiple vantage points, and with all of the mayhem across the city, the people who had decided to congregate there away from tall buildings or other potential terrorist targets were by and large in the open expanse of the Sheep Meadow. That was a big plus, as the last thing they wanted was unnecessary collateral damage or a ready supply of potential hostages if the ambush went sideways, which at this point none of them were prepared to rule out.

  Their goal was to draw the terrorists into the narrow area just north of the underpass that ran beneath the 65th Street Transverse known as the Denesmouth Arch. From there, Bullet Bob, the team’s most skilled long-gun shooter, would have an unobstructed field of fire from both directions. Though he couldn’t argue with Harvath’s rationale, Herrington would have much rather preferred being with the rest of the team. The idea of not being in on the actual ambush didn’t sit well with him at all.

  With the light fading, Harvath took Tracy Hastings aside and handed her the night-vision device from his bug-out bag.

  “So you’ve got no problem giving the girl with one eye a monocular?”

  “Do I look like I have a problem with it?” he replied as he pulled a pair of Motorolas out of the pack.

  “Then how come every time I turn around, you’re staring at my face?”

  Without even thinking about it, Harvath looked away from her. “You remind me of somebody, that’s all.”

  “I’ll bet I do,” she replied, not taking him seriously.

  “Listen, being an EOD tech, you’ve been trained to pay attention to the smallest details, and that’s what we need right now. As long as you pull your weight, I don’t give a damn that you’re a woman. And as far as having only one eye, I don’t care about that either. You got a night-vision monocular because that’s all I have with me.”

  Hastings was surprised by his honesty. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” replied Harvath as he turned and walked away to assign Cates and Morgan the
ir positions.

  Forty-Four

  Abdul Ali was beyond angry. Either Hussein Nassir had lost his nerve or his bomb had failed to detonate. Regardless, the Jordanian peasant would undoubtedly choose the latter as his excuse. The man’s involvement had been a mistake, Ali could see that now, but a beggar could seldom choose from whom he received his alms. The operation had necessitated the activation of almost every sleeper al-Qaeda had within the United States and even then additional men had to be smuggled in from both Canada and Mexico.

  Martyring oneself, at least in an operation of this nature, did not call for a superior intellect, not even superior courage, but rather a blinding faith that one’s reward would be delivered in paradise.

  That said, Nassir was a fool who was putting the rest of the operation in jeopardy by trying to track the team down. How he knew where they were was beyond Ali. All he knew was that keeping the details of an operation of this size quiet was very difficult. Someone must have told Nassir more than he needed to know. The positioning messages didn’t lie. The man had gone to both the Transcon office and the Geneva Diamond Exchange, and now for some reason had situated himself in Central Park. The idiot was going to get himself captured and would compromise everything. Ali had no choice but to go after Nassir and secure him until the rest of their work was done. Then he would find out how he had learned about the rest of the operation.

  Though it was going to have a significant and detrimental impact upon their schedule, Ali instructed Sacha to turn around and head for Central Park. He just hoped he could get there before Nassir made any more stupid mistakes and gave them all away.

  Forty-Five